Morning Glory
by parabolical
Summary: She's pretty sure that, when it comes to her, he doesn't see what he used to see. She's also pretty sure that's not the cause of her headache, but his roaming hands aren't doing anything to help it. (EngFem!US, established relationship pwp. Het oneshot, human!AU.)


**AN: **Written for the kink_meme over on Dreamwidth. The prompt was: Arthur doesn't often instigate things, which is why Amelia, feeling self-conscious, is willing to let him when he does, despite not being in the _best_ state. A lot of smut mixed with a little fluff, haha - I don't usually ship this, het or slash, but the prompt was too sweet to pass up on! Human!AU.

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**morning glory**

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He loves her. She thinks so, anyway, because it would be impossible to fake, when she holds his attention without doing anything to warrant it. His eyes are always on her and it's in bed when he proves it, not just in sex; he gravitates to her every night, no matter if it's far too hot outside to even begin contemplating contact. His arms always wind around her, his nose always presses to her hair – she feels gross and sweaty while he just wants to kiss her.

Ain't that love?

Of course, it's not that she doesn't appreciate it, but it's not wholly welcome when all she really wants to do is sleep.

It's one of those times. He's making these soft little _noises_, breathy sounds sent to nestle under her skin; the quivers he's sending down her spine are ones she'd be far more welcoming to if they didn't end up as earthquakes through her skull.

It hurts. It really, really hurts, each bump of his body – numerous parts – knocking what _had_ been a gentle ache into a nightmarish migraine she'd dream to get away from, if only her bedmate wasn't suddenly frisky. He hasn't tried anything yet, not really, content to bestow sloppy kisses to what's exposed of her back like it's enough to get him off.

He'll want more, Amelia's well aware. It's kind of hard not to be, when she's resting on her side and he's pressing his thickening cock against her ass.

She could push him away. An elbow against his hand, even gently, and he'd just roll over without a word – he's a good guy, her Arthur. And he's holding her. She tries to focus on it because it's _nice_, to be warm and close and covered.

Granted, he's probably just pinning her for the sake of sensation, but he's never complained when she's woken him up at some godless hour for coercing him into late-night cuddling. Well. He's grumbled a bit.

That's why Amelia _can't_ stop him. It's so rare he instigates anything that she'd been starting to think he only fucks her because he asks, only screws her out of sympathy.

He groans, a low, unsteady sound that draws her entirely from any wistful self-loathing because damn, she loves it when he's turned on. He's not the sweet, cultured English boy her parents approve of, not when he's failing miserably in an attempt to grind against her ass _subtly_.

"May we-?" he mutters, before his mouth finds its way to her throat. She tilts her head back instinctively, well-trained by now; he likes leaving marks across the crook of it, even when they're not about to fuck. He could spend hours sucking at her skin like she's something he wants to eat; problem being, he never really ventures to make a meal of her anyway.

"May we _what_, Art?" she says – because hey, if she has a headache while he's getting off on her, she's going to make him work for it.

He's been strained since she lay down, his hands struggling to keep off her. Why tonight of all nights raised the beast, she doesn't know, but the particularly harsh buck he offers against her is confirmation enough.

"_Please_," he mutters, and then seems to remember he needs to make the request first. "We haven't made love since-"

"Seriously?"

Another groan, this time from frustration, and he bites down on her neck like it's punishment. "I want to _fuck_ you."

"Better."

"That's a yes," he replies resolutely, and the hand fiddling with her chemise shifts instead to the inside of her thigh.

Now that he's not being so clumsy with her, her head's feeling better. He's left her wet and she wants to squirm, the arm still around her waist preventing her from doing so, but at least it's alleviating a degree of her migraine.

That hand against her thigh begins stroking, making its way so, so close to the growing ache between her legs that it's infuriating when it doesn't go any further. The arm that kept her captive unravels, hand cupping her breast to squeeze it, _slowly_, just as slow as its partner down south.

Her whole body arches, entirely without her input. Her head punishes her for it, a sharp, stabbing pain behind her eyes, but the rest of her thanks her a whole lot more, a faint twitch shuddering through her inner walls. She wants more. He's going too slowly.

She hisses, through gritted teeth, "What're you _doing_?"

Arthur pauses, eventual voice somewhat hesitant. "Trying to please you."

"What?"

"I want you to want this, too."

"What makes you think I don't?" she asks, but she speaks far too quickly and she's breathless in the process.

Does he know? Did she wince?

"You weren't really doing much to begin with." A pause. "Or much now, either. If – if you don't want to, my sweet, then..."

To think, the fate of his blue balls almost breaks her heart; _this_ is why she wouldn't say no. She wants him in every way she can have him, and he sounds so hopeful she can't possibly consider putting the cure of a night's sleep ahead of his unexpected foray into seduction.

"I do want it, sweetheart." She quickly moves her hand to cover his, pinning his palm to her thigh despite the protest in her head. It's exhilarating, to have his fingers splayed so _close_ to the most intimate part of her, the promise of what he can do to her almost enough to negate her migraine's presence.

But he doesn't do anything, past uttering, "No, you don't. You don't really."

"I was just kinda... surprised." She bites her lip. "You never seem to wanna do this kind of thing, Art, and that's okay, don't get me wrong – but I didn't expect it."

"We're hardly _virgins_, Amelia."

"You never try comin' onto me like this, honey!"

He ducks his head, pressing his brow against her shoulder. "I never _have_ to. You're always suggesting something ridiculous and it's... enjoyable, so why would I bother pestering you in the interim?"

Again her teeth sink into her lip, gaze searching for something, anything, she can focus on through the dark. But there's only the digital clock on the bedside table – 11:54, six minutes to a fresh day if she could put this night behind her.

"You... would do it 'cause you still think I'm attractive?"

"I – oh." He goes quiet for another uncomfortable moment, only speaking again once he's gently nuzzled against her. "Oh, love, silly, silly thing – do you think I don't try anything with you because I don't think you're _pretty_?"

"Well, yeah. When you put it like that, it's gonna sound dumb, but—"

"If you want to know the truth," he begins, but she cuts him off by rolling her hips back against him. He makes a choked sort of noise and she tries not to giggle, most definitely silenced when his hands press firmly down on her sides.

"Bloody _minx_."

"Tell me what the truth is, then."

He doesn't. Not at first. He takes her by surprise and shifts her, pulling her flat onto her back while he scrabbles to hover over her. She finds her wrists pinned to the pillow, either side of her head, and the questioning look she shoots is accompanied by only one incredulous statement.

"Missionary?"

"_Kissing_."

"Huh. You don't find me hideous anymore?"

"You're – what? No, no; you're not. I never thought that."

She huffs. "You've told me before that I eat too much."

Arthur sighs, long-suffering, and while he leans on one elbow his other hand tucks hair from her forehead back behind her ear.

"This is America, darling; everyone eats too much. I want someone I can shag rather than someone I'd snap in half."

"So charming."

But he knows her well. He knows exactly what makes her laugh; she giggles again, arms tightening their hold while she stays staring up at him – or what she can see of him, anyway, moonlight-dimmed. He's still hard, horny bastard, cock pressed resolutely against her leg because he most likely wants her to spread 'em. Not yet; she's liking this, headache be damned.

"You're everything to me." He speaks as though he's sighing, lowering himself enough to rest his lips against her cheek. It's not so much a kiss as a gesture of familiarity, something lazy and slow – that's how he wants to take it. "I adore you, even if it doesn't seem like it sometimes. What would I possibly do without you? I'd have nothing to my name but an empty bed and crippling frustration, no doubt; your insatiable thirst for nestling together bodes well for me."

She laughs at that, lightly. Her hands snake around his neck when he lets them go, arms resting over his broad shoulders; he is beautiful, even if she isn't.

"That's 'cause you're a cuddle monster," she sagely asserts, earning only a bump against her nose from his.

"It's because I love you, precious girl," he insists. "And _making_ love, but I don't feel the need to seek it out. Not least of all due to you jumping my bones frequently enough – but because it's quality over quantity, isn't it?"

Amelia only sighs happily, a long, blissful egression.

The sound of his voice is a curious thing; it soothes her like a lover can. She'd get so excited by it over the sound of the telephone – he'd call her at work, or when he was on his break, and she'd find herself crossing her legs because he'd make her wet just from blathering on about his suspicion that a colleague stole his stapler. Maybe it's in the accent, or it's in the way he uses it.

They don't really call any more. They're both far too busy for finding the time, and maybe it's work. After all, it was a shitty day dealing with shitty clients that's left her brain burning.

He seems to think he's sated her, because his mouth tries to find hers but it misses. He simply allows himself to impart a kiss to her nose while her unaffected lips curve into a smile – God, he's too cute, sometimes.

"I'm well aware," says he, murmur finally pressed against her mouth, "that I don't deserve you. And I prefer, madam, to savour it when I do have you."

That's something he's said before. She's never understood it. She guesses it's stamina; he's older than her – not by much – but with his busybody office he can't just go at her for hours when he gets home.

She kisses him, because he doesn't seem to plan on letting go any time soon if she doesn't. He doesn't try to get much more than a flutter of her lips, content with the plush kind of warmth that meets his own. He _does_ deserve her; he does, he does, he does.

When he pulls back, it's only to reverently brush those lips against her temple. "Your head. It's giving you trouble, isn't it?"

Amelia scrunches her nose up, says, "How'd you know?"

"I can tell." She hears his grin as he goes on, "_Orgasms_ are supposed to help those in-"

"Arthur!"

"All right, all right." He paws at her breast, an inadvertent fumble, as he asks, "Would you like me to stop?"

Even what he's doing now is nice, and she seizes his wrist to keep his hand right _there_.

"...No."

"You're sure?"

"Uh-huh." She arches her back again, her migraine a buzz - for now, anyway. "Any sudden moves and I'll knee you where the sun don't shine, but I reckon I could take it slow."

He chuckles, restrained, but doesn't say anything more. She lets her eyes slide shut, fingers slipping away from him while he resumes giving her breast gentle, small squeezes, bed lowly creaking as he clambers right over her.

When he tries to push her legs apart with his knee, she offers no resistance.

Her chemise is of thin material, which comes in handy when he changes tact on her breast; the widest part of his thumb rubs against the hard nub he's made of her nipple, swollen and sore in the most wonderful way. She hooks a leg around his middle as she always does, though it's a loose hold, hardly demanding – being ravished is doing wonders for her head.

He swoops to catch her mouth, something she's only too happy to concede. She tries to keep her lips pressed together when the tip of his tongue pushes against them, only to piss him off, but the growl he lets out makes her _throb_. She gasps and he seizes it, slipping that tongue deep inside to rest snugly over hers.

Arthur doesn't wait long. He flicks it, a long lap against the side of her own that makes her shiver, taken off-guard, and when he rolls the tip of it between her lips instead she lets her leg tighten its hold in response.

Tongue happily abusing its stronghold, he turns his lower hand, cupping her mound with his palm. It's still through the chemise but she lets out a cry, lost against the damp warmth before her lips. His weight presses down on her as his hand does, and she's certain he's able to feel just how wet she is but he's doing nothing about it; he simply keeps his hand still and she wants him to move it, circle it, anything.

Her clit gives a dull throb, sensation heavy and uncomfortable between her legs. If he'd just rub her, stroke her a little – he isn't going to.

Fuck, Amelia loves this man. She really, really does, because he knows when to give and give, when she doesn't want to do anything but have pleasure lavished upon her. Now is most definitely one of those occasions, even more so than usual, so she simply decides to let him do as he likes.

It's like he's smothering her, not that she's complaining. She couldn't anyway, not when he's dipping so happily into her mouth when it suits him, her lips threatening to numb with the way he's encouraging them to part and dance. She places her hands against his chest, gripping his shirt, wondering if he's aware of how she's pulsing more and more against his palm the longer he simply pushes up against her quim.

Maybe he does. He squeezes, though with less pressure than he'd applied to her breast, her whole body singing his praises as it makes her hips jerk for want of _more_. Sheer pleasure warms beneath his touch, unfurling to fill her. She's vaguely aware of her thighs quivering.

"_Please_," she pants, because there was never any way she'd manage to sound dignified. He's only just withdrawn his tongue, and she hears him lapping at his lips like a happy pussycat.

"Please what?"

"Don't you dare-"

"I want to hear it, my sweet."

Amelia presses her feet flat to the mattress either side of him, legs raised at the knee, and rubs her palms along the small of his back. She couldn't really be any more obvious if she tried, but she feels the need to mockingly respond, "Please, _please_, stick your big, thick cock in me and fuck me good an' senseless."

(Half-mocking, anyway.)

"How perfectly vulgar," Arthur says like he doesn't enjoy it, springing his hands away from her.

She can't see what he's doing beneath the blanket but she hears it, the rustle of fabric while he fumbles with his bottoms. Arthur's always been a trip, declaring he might as well be naked if he doesn't wear full, woolly pyjamas every night to bed. Amelia doesn't mind, as much as she teases him. They make his arms warm and snug, his body a pillow, but it's even nicer when he slides his trousers 'round his knees and shows her what he's got.

Yeah, she can't lie; his cock is a benefit to the rest of him. She never tires of it, curved affair that it is – it used to _hurt_, to have some asymmetrical lance spearing her insides, but he's learnt how to satisfy her, moved from awkward hammering to clumsy refinement. She wasn't his first time, he told her, but she was the only girl who'd really cared about him long enough to want a second go.

Oh, he's stupidly devoted. He was so determined, so eager to get it right, and Amelia has no reason to feel insecure but yet...

He shifts forward with a mutter, tangling five fingers into her hair while his other hand drops something into hers. She chokes back laughter when she realises he's simply handed her his cock, and he affirms the fact that yes, he's achingly hard, thrusting with sleek ease along her palm.

Her Arthur isn't just some kinda deviant, control freak though he might be. He's resting his dick against her fingers because he knows she likes playing with it, smearing his pre-ejaculate everywhere she can get it. As she delivers a few gentle fondles, his mumbling quietens up pretty fast, his nose pressing firmly to her temple while he inhales, exhales, sharp.

Amelia cups around his shaft, stroking her way to the base of it. Her fingers meet fur there, his little blond curls – she likes smoothing them down with his own slick, and as she does so with the pad of her thumb, his breathing hops a notch more frantic. It's not as fun when he's already hard. It's entertaining to see him writhe his way out of softness, in the dim lighting of their bedroom's lamps, but when it's dark and he's simply erect while frustrated, it feels too cruel to continue.

Grinning, she squeezes his balls – he shudders, and while he's distracted she loops her fingertips up to his cockhead, circling slowly. If he wasn't frustrated before, he certainly must be now.

"_Darling_," he breathes, though it sounds like the end of a sentence. She thinks she can guess what his voice failed him on because she feels it too.

She fully expects him to simply take her, then, to feel that cockhead press against her steady-throbbing core. Maybe it's a case of wham-bam, thank you ma'am; unsatisfying, but she just wants to make him happy. She wants to stop feeling like he sees nothing in her.

When he flitters suddenly down her body, beneath the blankets and out of sight entirely, it takes her by warranted surprise.

The way she fists through his hair is instinctive, gripping his choppy locks tightly because she isn't sure what he intends to do. Her legs are readily parted and it's not difficult, therefore, for him to begin pressing sloppy kisses to the soft backs of her knees, and all she can see of him is the writhing caterpillar-lump contained beneath their duvet.

Though he's waxed poetic over her legs when she's had them wrapped around him – _milky and long and oh, oh, fuck, fuck_ – he never does this to her. Never, ever. She likes it, but he's always insisted he's no good at it. Doesn't know how much pressure to apply, or where, can't be sure if her mewls are from approval or annoyance.

His hands slide up while his mouth makes its way north, too, licking and sucking at exploratory intervals. He strokes her inner thighs before his warm tongue tastes them, and she's embarrassed because she's been aroused enough to trickle there – he drinks from her, greedily following the path of her lubrication after feeling his way to rivulets.

When he finally touches his tongue to her vulva, her head's tipped back into the pillow, widened mouth calling silent praises.

It's not enough for him to simply lap across her most tender flesh, neglecting her slit in favour of easing her apart. She knows she's ready, and half the fun of it is being gratified, so she gives one sharp, commanding twist in his hair, pulling his mouth directly over her folds.

He seems thankful for the guidance, wasting no time in seeking out her flavour further. His hands settle on the bump of her belly; they both know she isn't a calorie-free supermodel but it doesn't stop her from feeling embarrassed, an immediate wave of shame crashing through her when he near-protectively strokes from her navel to waist.

Amelia _knows_ it's stupid. She's just a normal woman, her love for dining out greater than passions for purging and hey, Arthur's always only too happy to help wolf down her apple pies, when she actually bakes them. He makes ridiculously sexual noises when he's eating, even though he doesn't mean to – and he's making the same noises now, each one burying vibrations in her skin. She's so open to him but he doesn't venture inside past the entrance, his tongue licking brisk, level lines across the outside, ruler-straight.

Her hands clasp over his, keeping them stuck against her stomach. She knows he's only trying to reassure her with his caresses, to show she doesn't disgust him like she worries so much she does, but she can't take it. Not now, not after the shitty day of shitty clients, the fat-jokes at her expense from snickering teenage sons.

Maybe later she'll let him, and she'll tell him she loves him, her sappy, stuffy boy. He's sharp and he's mean and he's cruel, but not to her. He's only such a shy sweetheart with her.

She can only relinquish her grip while he traces sloppy circles over her excited little nub, and his released hands ghost up and down her sides. Hers fist into the bedsheets either side of her. She can't speak, but she hadn't really been such a great conversationalist before – and he's hardly going to name the constellations for her while he's vigorously trembling his plump lips around the most intimate part of her anatomy.

His hands take to sliding smoothly beneath her hips, cupping her arse while he lifts her quim towards his mouth like she's lighter than air. She does nothing other than allow him but he emits an appreciative whimper, rubbing his nose's tip against her clit before rubbing his tongue over it instead.

Amelia _mews_. Her body, rebellious and disloyal, alternates its responses, the puritan pain lodged beneath her forehead heating only once he's coaxed a shuddering wave of elation from her clit. Her migraine is almost pitiful in comparison to what Arthur's doing to her. It's a concentrated kind of rapture, flickering under every artful stroke of his tongue – it wants to consume her, and she's perfectly willing to let it, her lower back curving as he raises her, elevates her. He knows how to make her come so _fast_.

Why he thinks he's no good, she'll never know. Maybe they're both as silly as each other.

Bending her knees aimlessly above him only makes her feel indifferent, so she slides her legs down over his shoulders with all the grace she can muster. He likes that, if the way he shamelessly moans into her is anything to go by, and she feels his hips jerking. Her ankles knock against his back with every jerk of his head, his whole body shifting in time with his mouth. He's humping the bed without any trace of his usual dignity, but what kinda guy wouldn't be turned on supreme by the chance to bury his face in her?

One particular lick serves as detonator, and she throws her head back so far into the pillow she struggles to breathe, her throat taken by surprise. "Arthur," she manages, gasping. "Arthur, please, love you, _Art, love you, love_-"

He doesn't move his tongue. He presses it down, _hard_, and it ricochets through her limbs like feedback and she's coming, juddering into babbling, boneless relief. She thrashes and shrieks nonsense while he does his best to keep his tongue against her, and each faltering brush across her clit only adds strength to the surge of sensation washing her headache away as forgiveness would.

After that, she simply falls limp. Catching her breath, contentedly selfish.

When he finally eases away, she's still blissed-out and twitching. She's in no fit state to speak as he again settles along her, rolling her onto her side while he slots back to cuddling her from behind. His cock, engorged and leaking, wets her night-gown when he nestles it once more against the valley of her arse.

He kisses her hair, then rests his cheek over hers. She's warm and sleepy but he's unfinished – she knows him better than to think he'd let her slumber.

"Was that all right?" he murmurs.

"_Nhh_."

"I see," he says, with a low chuckle promptly after. "So you liked it?"

Amelia lazily smiles.

He doesn't press her for a reply, nuzzling her shoulder. Though he's hugging her waist, he spreads a hand over her stomach again; she can't make herself speak enough to protest. A whine escapes her lips and he laughs it off, though she's not really too bothered, happy he's at least allowing her time for recuperation.

Breathe in, breathe out, equilibrium. She jolts when he pipes up again, and she realises she must've been falling asleep regardless.

"Has your head stopped plaguing you, darling?"

"Uh," she says, eyelashes parting. "Uh-huh."

"Ah." There's a smirk in his voice as he says, "I told you it would."

She moans, though this time from irritation. She thrusts her ass back against him, to shut him _up_, but it has the adverse affect of making him delightedly grunt.

"Give a girl some recovery first." Amelia speaks slowly, slurred, stretching out across the mattress until he squeezes her fondly. "Whaddya want?"

"Oh, you know... it'd be a shame to waste this. When you're so slick and open. When you're too quiet to complain and it's too dark for you to tell what I'm doing."

"_Liiittle_ creepy, there, honey."

"You know I'm only teasing."

"Yeah." She grins, then bumps her ass firmly down against his cock. "So am I."

"_Shit_," he barks, tightening his hold on her. He blindly thrusts forward, once, twice, thrice – it's a wonder he hasn't made a mess of himself yet, but he's the most stubborn person she knows for a reason. "Shit, oh, _fuck_."

"Do you wanna?"

He grunts his confusion into her caramel hair, curls damply clutching at her temples. Being quenched by her boyfriend's mouth is really quite exhausting, it seems, but she's determined to milk him for what she can get, concluding she's not tired enough just yet to surrender.

"Do you wanna fuck me, Arthur?" she asks, tone sweet enough to make him whimper into her locks instead. "You can. It's okay, I won't tell. Make me come again and I'll even let you shoot off inside-"

"_Fuck_," he interrupts. "Oh, Christ; I've been picturing you in various states of undress all day."

It might be rare that he instigates sex, and he's been a bundle of surprises tonight, but that's a statement that shocks her. She does her best to glance over her shoulder, catching what she can of him through the moon's dim illumination.

"How come, honey?"

He freezes, contemplating whether or not to explain. He must decide to, nevertheless, because he questions, "Do you remember what you did this morning?"

"Uh. Not really. I had cornflakes for breakfast."

"Aside from that." Arthur licks his lips, a damp click. "You fixed my tie, don't you recall?"

"Well. Yeah...?"

"Then you kissed me, with a dizzy little wink, and flung yourself over me like some kind of... some kind of cornflakes harlot." He kisses the dip beneath her ear, and she blinks through the darkness, bemused. "But you cruelly sent me away so I wouldn't be late for work. It _bothered_ me, all bloody day; Kiku thought I was coming down with something."

Amelia giggles; she can't help it, because the libidos of men are alien to her, his more so than others. He takes her hand and lifts it to his lips, kissing her wrist while she says, through some disbelief, "_That_ really made you horny?"

Her answer comes not through words, but in the form of a hand sneaking between her sprawled legs, easing her apart enough for his cock to swiftly follow. By now, she's most likely ruined a perfectly good nightgown, her damp thighs offering no resistance. The rest of her tenses, makes no move to push him away; he isn't trying to enter her.

He thrusts forward, slow and steady against her vulva, gratifying himself through mere contact.

"Not taking it so slow any more, are ya."

His fingers interlock over her tummy, while he trails kisses across what he can of her spine seam. "Would you prefer me to seduce you? With poetry, perhaps? Limericks might suit you better."

"Hey!" she says, with a slap to the back of his hands. "I deserve all that classy stuff. I'm classy too, ain't I?"

"Nowhere near," he replies in a drawl, but he swaps his thrusting to delicate grinds.

Tiny shocks of pleasure bounce through her abdomen with every drag of his dick against her clit, her labia, and her mouth curves into a smile before she bites her lip, indulging in her own curvature. Her leg hooks over his torso behind her, leaving her ripe for the taking, if he doesn't intend to tease. Who says bigger girls can't be flexible?

His cockhead finally pushes at her slit, gliding with ease from her climax and his moisture. Though he leaves one arm firmly wrapped around her middle, his spare hand palms at her tits, gleefully tweaking her nipples as he thrusts _up_ and in, and in, and in.

For all his modesty – or perhaps his insecurity – he really does have a great cock. He knows what to do with it, at the very least, and she needs no time to adjust before he begins graciously ramming into her.

It doesn't upset her. He can be a beast in the bedroom, though she'd never have guessed it by looking at him; he's certainly proven it to her during nights like these. He's into some pretty weird shit, even if now is one of the occasions in which he's happy to go vanilla. When he's happy to make her happy, too.

Her whole body quivers with every last thrust and she rests her arm over his, aligning her thumb above her clit. While he fucks her, she rubs and rubs, furiously so. She's wet to her wrist within seconds, the rest of her frustratingly sweaty. It's only made all the more delicious because he's kissing wherever he can reach; her neck, her jaw, her ear...

Just when she's beginning to lose control of her own limbs, Arthur relinquishes her breast to push away her circling hand, replacing it with his own. She cries out, just from that. He doesn't even know how good he's making her feel, drawing her down onto his cock with his strong arms until he's sheathed, stretching her wide and sore in the most wonderful way – he's bouncing into her, out from her, the inner walls he leaves in his wake only too happy to accommodate.

Every thrust comes with a grunt, or a sigh, or profanity enough to make her veteran of a grandfather blush. His sounds make her twitch just as much as his cock does, buried to the hilt, or the thumb he's got working her clit over like clockwork.

"I love you," comes a whisper, just as she thinks that she can't take any more. He pounds into her between every clipped sentence, breath hitching higher and higher. "I love you, Amelia. I – _shit_, so fucking tight, Jesus Christ, _Amelia_ – only you, my love, you're gorgeous. You're my dear, dear girl and I'd never think anything less, I think you're lovely, I do, I do, I don't deserve you in the least and I'm sorry, oh, oh _bollocks_–"

His hand stops. His grip around her tightens, and it hurts but she doesn't dare complain, keeping herself as still as she can while he comes, managing only shivery little thrusts because he's far too busy screaming into her shoulder.

It's a mess without a condom, but he always says he prefers it. He feels dizzily accomplished to release inside her and it makes everything feel so much better, even if it's rare that she actually lets him.

When he's done, when he can't will himself to move again, she takes his hand in her own. She grinds down on his palm, spurred on by the groan of spent arousal he lets out over her throat, and her second orgasm of the night is quiet and softer but it's worth it. He loves her, he must do – she feels adored and desired and she could cry, her heart adopting the ache her head had tried to make her suffer through.

They end up lying in silence.

She's dishevelled and he is, too, and she knows they're going to look ridiculous in the morning. If she wasn't so tired herself, she'd insist on bathing with the useless, floppy lump currently draped over her; she'd give him bubble-bath beards and demand for him to perform impressions. As it stands, she's finding enjoyment in him going soft still inside her, the trembling shared between the pair of them as their erratic breath gradually settles.

"That was good," she says. It's an understatement, but her mind is too blank for conjuring more appropriate adjectives.

"Mm," he says. She turns in his arms, his cock slipping from her with an inelegant slurping sound, and when she's finally facing him he presents her with a jumbled replica of a kiss. "I love you."

"You gonna cling to me all night, baby?" she asks. He nods, and she responds with a tut. "Cuddle monster."

He cracks open an eye. "Fuck off."

"Romantic."

"Mm." He slips forward, nestles his head to her collarbone. "Love you."

"Yeah, Arthur." She smiles at that, his broken-record mumbling, but he's closing his eyes again; she does the same with her own, carding her fingers through his sweaty hair. "Yeah, I love you too."

"You're not – not ugly." He doesn't shift, and it sounds like a strain for him to move his mouth but she wants to hear it, perversely curious. "I don't want you to think I'm... avoiding sex, or some such nonsense. I'm just nervous, still, about how you'll respond. About disappointing the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, one who's actually _willing_ to share my bed, and... and I sound wretched, don't I? Never mind." His lips sweep over her clavicle, apologetic. "I'm being pathetic."

"No," she insists, hastily. "No, sweetie – no, you're not pathetic. But I love you, Arthur; you'd never disappoint me."

"I mean it." He curls around her, languid. "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. Inside or out."

Amelia can't speak, wouldn't know what to say even if she could. She kisses his chin, and she hopes it's enough; she hopes he knows how much he means to her, how she's endlessly sorry that she ever doubted the grumpy, awkward boy who confessed devotion to her by the photocopier.

Even so, she'll tease him mercilessly come morning. He doesn't usually fall asleep so fast, after sex. They'll need one hell of a shower before work and she makes a mental note to propose round three, when they can see each other between clouds of warm-water steam.

Because Amelia won't mind it. She won't mind Arthur seeing her, in all her naked glory. She'll flaunt what she has without letting him touch her, and he'll plead through subtle rhetoric while she does her best not to let him outwit her, and he'll throw the most English tantrum ever witnessed before she silences him by licking his cheeks. Her last thought is of him, before she lets sleep cocoon her, before she surrenders to the protective grasp he's got her in.

He loves her. She knows that much, at least.

* * *

**fin**


End file.
